Dozens of them. Maybe a hundred. Some were tiny. Others towered to six feet. They were everywhere. Standing on pedestals. Tucked into alcoves. All were carved to look like a handsome young man with slicked-back hair and bright blue eyes.
“Oh, my,” the priest mumbled again. He thought this must be Miss Spratling’s private shrine to the young Elvis Presley.
“That’s my Clint,” Gerda said, standing up from her cushioned kneeler. “The soul for whom we pray this night.”
Father Murphy reached for his handkerchief, dabbed at his damp brow.
“Clint was my fiancé,” Miss Spratling said. “I remain his eternal bride!”
The priest sponged more sweat. “How lovely.”
“Sharon?” Miss Spratling called out. “Get on your knees. Clint needs your prayers, too. Tonight he needs all our prayers!”
Judy raced up Main Street.
She passed the town clock tower, still stuck at 9:52.
Ten minutes before ten, give or take a minute or two.
That was what Davy Wilcox had told Grandpa he’d seen. Back when he was a boy. Back when he was still alive.
Judy checked the dashboard clock.
10:10 p.m.
She couldn’t believe what a terrible stepmother she was: She had sent Zack on a sleepover date with dead people.
The burning stump exploded into a shower of sparks, which landed like a cannon blast on the plywood deck of the boys’ pirate ship.
The tree fort crackled with fire.
Zipper barked.
“You’re right. We need Davy.” Zack wove his way through the trees, down the slope to the highway. Zipper ran after him.
“There he is. See? In the cornfield.” The fire was now so bright it cast long, jagged shards of light all the way across the highway. “Davy?”
Zack’s best friend was fifty—maybe a hundred—yards away, but Zack could see him.
“Davy? You gotta come back! The fire’s out of control!”
In the distance, Davy turned slowly.
“Hurry! It’s burning down the tree fort!”
Davy waved.
And then he disappeared. He didn’t walk into the wall of cornstalks or hide behind a tree—he disappeared!
Zack stood frozen in shock.
He had never battled an out-of-control fire before.
He had never seen his best friend vanish into thin air, either.
In the middle of the prayers, Miss Spratling sprang up.
“Do you hear that?”
“Hear what?” the priest asked.
“That horrible screaming!”
The priest looked insulted. “I was singing a hymn, Miss Spratling.”
Miss Spratling ignored him and hurried from the chapel—desperate to silence the screaming no one else could even hear.
Davy was gone and the whole forest was about to burn down unless Zack did something fast.
He could run up to the house and roll out the garden hose. He could go into the garage and turn on the lawn sprinklers. He could run inside and grab a fire extinguisher.
Before he could decide what to do or where to run, the wind whipped up and sent another shower of sparks spewing out of the stump like an angry volcano. Now there were twenty small fires licking up the sides of trees, wilting the underbrush, heading for the house!
Some sparks landed close to the propane grill and a river of fire snaked its way toward the ten-gallon gas tank hanging off the side.
“Run, Zipper!” Zack screamed. “It’s gonna explode!” He quickly scooped up his dog and dashed down the hill to the highway. When he reached the road, he kept running and headed for the graveyard. He had been safe there once before. He’d go there again and hide.
Hide from Dad and Judy and the firemen and—
The propane tank exploded.
Behind him, Zack heard metal ripping through the trees.
In a flash, the fire leapt out of the forest and shot across the backyard and started gorging itself on the house.
Zack cowered behind a headstone. The sky over his house was glowing a bright orange. Explosions shook the ground. The fire had found the gasoline-powered lawn equipment in the garage.
Zack Jennings had never been in bigger trouble. He had burned down his father’s house. He might burn down the whole neighborhood.
He saw Judy’s car driving down Route 13. She was on her way home.
And she used to like me. I think she really did.
Zack was ready to run away from home forever; he just didn’t know where to go or which way to run.
“Finish the job,” hissed a voice behind him.
It was the skinny preacher. The scary Bible campers were lined up behind him, but this time, they all looked pale and Zack could see blue veins rippling across their faces.
“Finish the job!” the children chanted, moving closer.
The preacher thumped his Bible. “Finish the job!”
Zack had to flee the graveyard before the ghosts grabbed him!
“Come on, Zip!”
They raced back down the hill to the highway and an old-fashioned convertible materialized out of the haze beneath the blinking stoplight in the crossroads.
The phantom car flew out of a smoky cloud and skidded to a stop. It appeared exactly the same way Davy had disappeared.
So did the shadow man.
The man with wavy hair who Zack had first seen slinking through his backyard on the night of the big storm. The shadow man stared up into the woods like he was searching for something, but all he found was fire.
“No!” Zack heard him scream before the man doubled over and clutched his belt like someone had just socked him in the gut. “Who did this to me?”
Zipper barked. The shadow man turned, saw them.
“You!” The man held his side and limped up the highway.
Zipper snarled, then dashed straight at the shadow man.
“Zipper!” Zack yelled. “Don’t! Come back here!”
Zipper didn’t listen; he nipped at the shadow man’s ankles.
“Stupid dog! I’ll cut off your ears!” The shadow man pulled out a knife and slashed at the air, but his wild flailing didn’t scare Zipper, who kept lunging at his rolled-up pants cuffs.
“Zipper!” Zack heard sirens and blaring air horns as fire trucks raced up the road from town.
“Finish the job!”
The preacher and the creepy Bible campers were stumbling down the hill from the cemetery. Beyond them, behind the wrought iron fence, Zack saw other people he didn’t recognize. Dead people.
“I’ll get you, boy!” the shadow man screamed.
Zack was surrounded.
“Get in.”
He whipped around and saw the old lady’s Cadillac idling in the middle of the highway. The chauffeur leaned out his window.
“Get in, boy. Now!”
The rear window scrolled down.
“Hop in, dearie,” the old lady said from the backseat, trying hard to smile. “We’re your only hope. It appears that demon spirits everywhere are crawling out of their graves to get at you!”
“No,” Zack said.
“You shouldn’t have torched my stump, kid!” Up the highway, the greasy-haired ghoul was limping toward them. “You’re a Jennings, ain’t you, boy? You and me got unfinished business!”
“Get in the car, boy!” said the old driver. “Hurry!”
Far in the distance Zack saw Judy reeling around underneath the blinking red beacon.
“Zack?” she cried out. “Where are you? Zack! Zack!” She sounded mad.
Madder than my real mom ever got.
Zack ran to the Cadillac. It seemed his only choice. He had to run away. The old lady had a car.
Miss Spratling yanked the door shut behind him. “Mr. Willoughby? Drive!”
The chauffeur piloted the car down the center of the highway. When they reached the crossroads, the man with the slicked-back hair was gone. Zipper looked fine. A little dazed and conf
used, but fine.
“My, my, my—isn’t that your stepmother?” the old lady whispered. “Does she know how much you like to play with matches?”
Zack slid down so Judy couldn’t see him but he could see her.
She was crying.
She isn’t mad. She’s crying!
Zack sprang up.
“Be still, boy!”
Zack went to pound on the tinted window, but the old woman caught his arm.
“I said be still!”
“Let me out, you old witch!”
Zack tugged on the door handle. It wouldn’t budge.
“Let me out!”
“I will do no such thing. You, young man, must now pay for the sins of your fathers!”
Judy’s legs quaked. She couldn’t find Zack. Her new house was burning down. George was on the other side of the globe. Gerda Spratling’s creepy old Cadillac had just cruised up the road. She heard sirens. Fire trucks. Police.
And Zipper kept barking at her.
“What is it?”
Zipper ran up the road about twenty yards, stopped, and turned around. Barked.
“You want me to follow you?”
Zipper barked what had to be a “yes” and flew up the highway toward the graveyard. Judy followed. They ran all the way to the cemetery. Zipper barked louder, stood up on his hind legs, tried to scale the fence. Judy saw a baseball cap stuck on top of a railing. Zack’s Mets cap!
She understood.
Zack had been in the graveyard again. Why? Maybe a dead farmer named Davy had lured him there.
No. Davy didn’t want to hurt Zack. If he wanted to do that, he would have done it days ago.
Maybe Zack came here to hide, like he did the other night when the plumber was after them.
Okay. But hide from whom?
What if Zack was the one who started the fire? Then he’d be hiding from me!
She looked back toward the house. The firefighters were spraying water on the house, the garage, and that big stump in the backyard.
Looks like he destroyed Miss Spratling’s descanso, too….
The creepy old Cadillac!
“Judy?” Sheriff Hargrove came hiking up the cemetery hill behind her.
“We need to talk to Zack,” he said.
“She has him!”
“Who?”
“Gerda Spratling.”
“I’m afraid Miss Spratling has stepped out,” Sharon said to the crowd gathered outside the door.
“We know,” Judy said. “She stepped out to kidnap my son!”
Judy hadn’t called George. Not yet. What good would it do? She was the one who had to find Zack. Fast.
“We’d like to look around,” Hargrove said to Sharon.
“What is all this commotion?”
Gerda Spratling, dressed in her gauzy wedding gown, waltzed into the foyer.
Zipper barked.
“Kindly remove that vile creature from these premises.”
“The dog stays,” said Hargrove. “We need him to help us search your house.”
“Tonight?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Am I allowed to ask why?”
“My stepson is missing!”
“Really? Did you misplace him, dearie? My, my, my. How careless.”
“Miss Spratling?” said Hargrove. “We need to search your house. We need to do so immediately.”
“I saw you,” Judy said to Spratling. “I saw your car.”
“Where?”
“In the crossroads. You were there tonight!”
“Of course I was, dearie. I heard some young pyromaniac was attempting to destroy my roadside memorial. Tell me, Sheriff Hargrove: Has the fire department done their duty?”
He nodded. “The fire has been contained.”
“Wonderful. Now, then, if you will excuse me…”
“Miss Spratling?” said the sheriff. “Maybe you didn’t hear me. We need to search your house.”
“Oh, I heard you, Sheriff Hargrove. However, I don’t recall hearing you say you had a warrant. Did my dear friend Judge Brockman sign the appropriate papers?”
“Not yet, but he will.”
“Come back when he does. Good night, all.”
When she was certain Miss Spratling had gone to bed, Sharon hurried down the winding cobblestone path to the carriage house.
She couldn’t sleep, not without checking in on her son. All the talk about the missing boy had scared her.
“What is it now?” her mother grumbled when she opened the door.
“I just wanted to be sure Aidan was okay.”
“Aidan? He’s not here. Mr. Willoughby picked him up hours ago.”
“What?”
“He said Miss Spratling had given permission for Aidan to sleep up at the manor house tonight.”
Zack had no idea where he was.
The room was dark and smelled wet—like a basement when it rained.
The old lady, assisted by the even older driver, had tied his hands behind his back with duct tape. Then the old man had looped a heavy bicycle chain through his arms and locked him to some sort of metal pole. The floor he was sitting on was cold and hard.
And the baby was crying.
“Don’t worry, little guy,” Zack whispered. “We’re going to be okay. I promise.”
The baby gurgled. Zack could see a half-empty bottle jammed into the padding of his portable car seat. The baby started kicking. Ready to scream again.
“Hey, have you ever seen the town clock?”
The baby cooed.
“Did you know there used to be monkeys and squirrels inside that clock tower?”
The baby arched his eyebrows.
“Yeah. They’d climb up the gear teeth to get to the nuts up top.”
Zack made a funny face and wiggled his cheeks like he was washing walnuts. The baby giggled. He probably didn’t understand a word Zack was saying, but he seemed to like the silly faces.
“Stop that!”
The old lady and her driver were back. She stormed into the room, bent over the baby.
The baby started bawling.
“Go ahead. Scream, child. Scream! It’s good for the lungs. Helps them grow big and strong.” Miss Spratling turned to Zack. “Clint will be back soon to finish his unfinished business with you. He’d be here now, but you weakened him. Oh, yes, you did. Your little campfire? That sapped his strength. But he’ll be back. Tonight, dearie.”
“Miss Spratling?” The old man tottered forward. “The police will be coming back, as well.”
“Who cares? They’ll never find you, boy. Never, ever, never. Clint’s going to slice you up into tiny little pieces and all the king’s horses and all the king’s men won’t be able to put you back together again!”
Zack knew he was in huge trouble: The old lady was insane, nuttier than Grandpa’s clock tower!
“My beau, Clint, is quite angry at you, Mr. Jennings. Your petty pyrotechnic display has presented us with quite a problem. Before what’s left of his tree withers and dies, his soul must take up residence in another vessel.”
The old lady bent down to tell Zack her secret. “But guess what?” Her breath was hot and foul, her eyes wide. “Clint can live again! We don’t need the oak tree! All his soul needs to do is crawl inside a body that carries his royal blood!”
The old lady leaned even closer. “His grandson? The plumber? That boy was handsome, but a weakling. He couldn’t handle Clint’s surging energy.” Miss Spratling gazed at the baby. “But this son of his grandson? Why, Clint will slide inside this child with the greatest of ease! He will live again! He will grow up and marry me!”
“Miss Spratling?” The chauffeur tried again. “The police?”
“Yes, yes.” Miss Spratling stroked Zack’s chin. “Do you know why Clint’s soul was allowed to linger so long on earth, dear boy? Because I built that memorial and prayed for him. Yes, I did. Every day for fifty years! Now, tell me, child: When you’re dead and gone, who
will pray to save your immortal soul? Will anybody even miss you? Will anybody care?”
Zack pulled back, banged his head against the pole.
“No. I think not. You burned down their house. They won’t miss you at all!”
She cackled and the two old people shuffled out the door.
But Zack knew they’d be coming back.
And they’d be bringing the ghost from the tree.
Time crept slowly.
The baby fell asleep. Zack was alone with his thoughts and they were darker than the starless sky outside the big windows.
Will anybody care?
He had to think about it.
When Zack died, his father might be sad for a little while. Then he’d get busy like he always did. He’d pull himself together, focus on work, and “move on with his life”—just like he had when Zack’s mother died.
Maybe he and Judy would have some kids of their own. Not right away. But in a year, maybe two. They’d have a son who didn’t remind them so much of a dead wife.
His friends? Zack didn’t have any. Just Davy, and he probably wasn’t even real. What was he? A figment of Zack’s overactive imagination? No. Judy saw him, too. The way Davy disappeared in the cornfield tonight, it was just like how the shadow man had appeared, the guy the old lady called Clint.
The guy who was a ghost.
Was Davy a ghost? Probably. The preacher and the Bible camp kids in their old-fashioned clothes? Probably ghosts, too. Just like the Rowdy Army Men. Now that he thought about it, he realized that there sure seemed to be a lot of ghosts hanging around near the crossroads. Maybe Zack could join them. Maybe he could become the newest ghost kid haunting the highway.
Will anybody miss me?
Zipper? Did dogs miss people? Maybe. But only until somebody else filled their food bowl on a regular basis or slipped them a Whopper.
What about Judy?
Okay. Judy is different. Not just because she wore a purple wedding dress and is funny and likes to make up stories the same way I like to.